


Slip-Slide

by lisewrites



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Lena Luthor Needs a Hug, Masturbation, and a couple of decent orgasms, soft, softest of all smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 14:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisewrites/pseuds/lisewrites
Summary: Every single possibility burns.There are trillions of them, countless scenarios.





	Slip-Slide

**Author's Note:**

> We all love some love/hate sex, but here’s some love/hate masturbation. Enjoy!

Every single possibility burns.  
There are trillions of them, countless scenarios.  
From the way Kara’s mouth might curl upwards at the edges, as her eyes slide first from Lena’s eyes to her lips. Or the edges of her mouth might curl down, as her eyes skitter, restless, across Lena’s face. Slip-sliding away from her.  
(Imaginary-Kara would turn then, and blur out of view. And Lena would wake from her half-doze, and hatehatehate herself.)  
Maybe every version, every flavour, of Kara that Lena has ever met has been imaginary. Maybe she had never known her at all.  
Lena has tried to consider every possibility.  
She has tried and and she has tried and she has tried and she has tried. She has spent a dozen nights curling over and into herself time and time again, a fist to her stomach as she sobbed, a hand slipping into her underwear as she arched-  
Arched against nothing. Against her own fingertips. Against her own imagination.  
Tears track a hot line down her throat as she swallows them back. Salty. They are heavy against the underside her tongue, seeming to cling to the back of her throat, raw against her windpipe, raw against her lungs, raw against-  
She cries as she cums. 

And when she’s loose and her lungs don’t burn as much any more, she doesn’t bother to raise her sticky sticky sticky sticky fingertips to wipe away a stray tear. Instead, she allows it to roll, until it’s sliding against her ear and into her hair, cold now. She slips her hand out from under the waistband of her underwear, wiping her fingers absently against the sheets. Her arousal clings between her fingers still.  
She wishes that the mere idea of facing her best friend and demanding honesty didn’t get her so wet.  
Best friend. Best friend.  
She wishes they weren’t best friends. Best Friends, capital B capital F. Capital Bee. Capital Eff. Real, proper, best friends, finally, the type of friendship she would have burnt herself up alive for even a shadow of when she was thirteen. The type she couldn’t have even imagined in her wildest dreams before Kara Danvers strolled into her office and into her life and turned herself and her self-control upside down. Best Friends would have always been enough for her, more than enough.  
Best Friends should have always been enough for her.  
Best Friends don’t make Best Friends feel like this.  
Limp against sheets with a thread count of a thousand. Limp at the very idea of lips, lips and honesty. Limp with the names “Kara” and “Supergirl" interchangeably falling from her lips as she made herself come, and come again.  
And it didn’t matter that Kara was lying to her, because she was lying as well. And in some ways, her own betrayal burnt hotter. Hit deeper. Hit harder, right against her diaphragm. Her own betrayal shook her hands each time they hugged, each time she slid them across Kara’s back, across her shoulders, feeling her muscles twist, shift, contract.  
There was more than a skin-tight supersuit and a minor case of superhearing between them.  
Skin-thin. She felt, rather than heard, her own heartbeat pick up its pace. 

(Her hand slipped back into her underwear. She gripped the pillow beside her head with her other, her own loose hair trapped between her fingers. Kara would pull her hair. Kara would pull her hair hard, harder, as she fucked against her, their chests touching, Kara’s fingers slip-sliding across her clit, her-)

Her own need leaves her vaguely nauseous. Her need for someone, something, anything-  
She knows it isn’t strictly right, but she and Kara have been pressing against the zig-zagging lines between wrong and right for almost as long as she can remember. From the first time they met, and she had imagined the clean lines of Kara’s slacks pressing between her legs, against her desk-  
She moans, an unpretty sound, from the back of her throat where her tears still press, tight, and shuffles ungracefully onto her stomach. One hand still pressing, circling against her clit. She burrows her face into her pillows, and prays that she cums fast. Prays that she cums before her mind can flash-cut into her fucking brother ripping away the one good thing she had ever touched, ripping her heart apart with his last breath-  
The breath that she had taken from him.  
There are tears sliding against her face again, but she barely registers them. She bites into the fabric of her pillow, her soft moans mixing with her fabric softener.  
Kara’s arms flexing as she leant forwards at brunch, eager to listen to her, eager to learn from her. And Supergirl’s arms encircling her two hundred feet into a seven hundred foot drop.  
(She’d caught her less then halfway into the fall. Lena feels herself clench against nothing at all.)

Distantly, she hears her phone buzz again. Once, twice. Her own phone. Her personal phone.  
(The phone that only Kara and less than a handful of other people have the number to. But only Kara ever texts.)  
She spreads her legs further and grinds her hips back, against her own fucking fingertips, and whines softly between panted breaths.  
Kara’s texting her. Kara, her best friend, who has been lying to her for, lying to her for-  
She’s panting against her sheets now, mouth open, spit slick across her teeth, slick against the pillows, slick, slick, she’s slick against own her fingertips, Kara’s lying, she’s Kara’s best friend, Kara’s texting her. Kara’s texting her lies as she gets herself off to the thought of Kara’s lies and lying in Kara’s arms and god she’s wet and Kara’s arms-  
She cums so suddenly she shocks herself.  
So hard she half-collapses forwards against the pillows, limbs suddenly soft, pliable. Shaking, she’s still shaking.  
Her mind so blank she barely even registers her phone buzzing once more, and again against her mattress.  
She raises a hand to wipe away her saliva, feeling it cling to her teeth. She smells her own arousal, sticking to her fingers. She rolls, and grabs her phone from the other side of the bed. Blinks, and blinks once more.  
In the most recent message, there are three little words pressing together in ugly little pixels across the screen. Cutting into that picture of her and Kara, her favourite photograph of the two of them together.  
Smiling.  
Kara’s mouth curling at the edges.  
The message reads:  
‘Are you okay?’

She scrolls a little. The fingertips of her right hand leave a damp little trail across the cold glass of her phone screen. Sticky sticky sticky. She stares at the little lines for a moment before her hazy eyes can focus on the other messages.  
The next most recent simply reads: ‘Fuck this I’m coming over.’  
She scrolls through the rest, tasting her own pulse against the bottom edge of her tongue.  
‘Lena?’  
‘I can hear your heart racing’  
‘Please Lena just let me know your’e okay?’  
The typo takes her aback a little. (Kara Danvers, Journalist, didn’t do typos. Kara had won a Pulitzer not a week earlier, Kara had, Kara had won, Kara had her had her had her had her heart.) And then there’s a six minute gap in the messages here.  
‘But are you okay?’  
‘And I don’t blame you’  
‘I know you probably hate me right now’

And the first in the thread of messages, sent about three minutes after Lena had first downed the warm remnants of her whiskey and fallen into the middle of her bed.  
‘Can we talk?’

She lets her phone fall from her grip flops back once more against her still-warm mattress. Fingers still sticky.  
Still sticky as she scrolls through countless scenarios in her mind. Calculated, well thought-through. Clinically evaluated from beginning to end. Each possibility burns her from the outside in.  
Maybe she’s not so different really. Maybe being a Luthor doesn’t make her so very different after all. She’s twenty-four. She has tried and she has tried and she has tried and she has tried and her bedroom smells like sex and her phone is full of messages she won’t reply to.  
In the middle of the bed.  
Penthouse suite. Seventy-two floors up.  
And there’s a tap against the bulletproof glass of her balcony door.


End file.
